


I saw forever in my never and I stood outside his heaven

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, First Kiss, Gratuitous Oscar Wilde Mentions, John Watson Has Feelings, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace John, Mycroft Being Mycroft, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock's Mind Palace, TAB spoilers, TaB, The Abominable Bride, back and forth not just the MP, post sherlock special, tiny tiny hint about mystrade, youve been warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:18:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the mustache; it's back. the only logical conclusion is that I'm dreaming. I'm positive I told him I wasn't fond of his facial hair and thus he shaved yet he stands in the sitting room of a 221B that can best be described as a relic from another time with a thick mustache curling at the corners.</p><p>"don't do this to me Sherlock. I can't lose you again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I saw forever in my never and I stood outside his heaven

**Author's Note:**

> *****SPOILERS FOR TAB******  
> Holmes = 1895 Sherlock  
> Watson = 1895 John  
> Italics = Sherlock's inner thoughts
> 
> the title is from a song by blue october called "my never"

_I had a dream that you were with me_  
_and it wasn't my fault_  
_you roll me over_  
_flipped me over_  
_like a somersault_  
_and that doesn't happen to me_  
_I've never been here before_  
_I saw forever in my never_  
_and I stood outside his_  
_heaven_

[[listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejdjOXtbB4g)]

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense."

Sweat beads on Sherlock's forehead as he slips in and out of consciousness, the present blending with the past. Two vastly different sides of John melt together in perfect harmony until he can barely make out the real one.

_His mustache...hardly any time to shave it off. How did he manage? Irrelevant. He's worried, why is he worried?_

"It's a crying shame what lengths women must go through to be heard. I dare say they're taking quite the risk but Hooper _is_ one of the best in her field so her secret is safe with me." Watson steps forward and warms his hands by the blazing fireplace, rubbing them together as he speaks.

_The mustache; it's back. The only logical conclusion is that I'm dreaming. I'm positive I told him I wasn't fond of his facial hair and thus he shaved yet he stands in the sitting room of a 221B that can best be described as a relic from another time with a thick mustache curling at the corners._

"Don't do this to me Sherlock. I can't lose you again."

John's voice echos in the dusty sitting room, he turns and yet his lips aren't forming the words that Sherlock is positive he heard.

"Holmes? Are you ill? You're looking rather pale."

Holmes blinks and takes the chair opposite Watson; the one he'd staked his claim to ages ago only this one is more firm and sturdy, from an era where furniture was truly meant to stand the test of time.

"I'm fine."

Watson plucks a newspaper off of the floor (likely discarded by Holmes earlier as it's singed on the top right hand corner) and unfolds it, the paper crinkling loudly under his fingertips.

"Oscar Wilde...seems hes been arrested for indecency. Isn't he the author you're fond of?"

"Can you hear me? Your pulse is weak and you're clammy but as long as you're conscious you'll be okay. Why'd you do this Sherlock? Why?"

_I'm sorry John._

Watson shifts in his chair and raises an eyebrow - "Wilde? Ring any bells?"

"The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. Resist it and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful," Sherlock replies softly.

Watson's cheeks seem to color at the quote -

_That could've been us on trial. I would do that for you, I would go to prison if it meant feeling your lips against mine just once._

"The Picture of Dorian Gray," Watson says as he carefully folds the newspaper and lets it silently drop to the rug below.

Sherlock's eyes flutter and John comes into focus briefly - his forehead is creased and brows furrowed. He has one hand curved around a pale wrist and both eyes on a watch that Sherlock had purchased for him months ago as a wedding present.

_I'm here John. I'll be back soon, promise._

"I don't agree with the harsh sentence handed down to Mr. Wilde," Watson says, breaking into the present then quickly snapping back into the past. He's shaking his head and staring into the fire as if it might fix everything - all of the things that this world says are sinful and filthy; illegal.

"Lestrade seems to feel the same. Hes been lamenting about intolerance and feeling powerless to stop the wheels of justice - or shall I say injustice - from turning in the wrong direction. He mentions my brother frequently during his tirades. Honestly I tune most of it out, I'm sure he has every detail committed to memory."

There's a warmth on Holmes' cheek; the ghost of physical touch only they're alone in the flat and Watson hasn't budged from his chair. He presses a hand to his face, half expecting John's palm to be resting there.

_He's checking for signs of life; a pulse, slight coloration of the cheeks, steady heartbeat._

"Holmes...if we were to take on such a case ourselves - and clearly we cannot but this is mere speculation - would you, in good mind, feel as if it were a man's right to love another man?"

_What?_

Holmes stretches his legs and smirks - "Love is not a matter I am well versed in, Watson. I've never been one to take on romantic cases, you know this. Having said that, yes. If a man is in a competent state of mind - that is to say that he isn't being forced into this affair - then he is perfectly capable of being with the person he cares for."

The fire crackles and pops; throwing shadows on the wall and illuminating John's face as he smiles. "Brilliant."

Beige leather seats come into view -  _they've b_ _een replaced within the past couple of months. March 13th. The seats directly behind John are older and are the only remaining originals, a crack in the one to my right indicates heavy usage. It hasn't been repaired due to lack of funding._

John's palm rests against his cheek as his thumb gently strokes back and forth. The other is clutching Sherlock's wrist firmly with fingers curving over his pulse.

_You're touching me...like you love me, like you care whether I live or die.  
_

The sound of a delicate china teacup being placed on a matching saucer pulls Sherlock backwards into time.

Watson has a glint in his eye as he tugs his chair closer to Holmes'.

"What if, in another lifetime, we sat here in this room and stood at the very edge of a cliff; would you take that leap? ...for me? Not a real cliff, mind you."

Holmes scoffs - "Watson, that's absurd. Time travel doesn't exist and if it did it would find its way into the greedy hands of corrupt politicians who would then use it to destroy the world as we know it."

"You're not answering the question."

Holmes leans forward in order to see Watson more clearly in the dim room - "And if I said yes?"

Watson seems to light up like a Christmas tree at this - "Then I would find you."

Blue eyes come into focus, blinding daylight pouring in through an airplane window - John's lips on his cheeks, his forehead, his nose. He's saying words but they're muffled as if he were speaking from a long distance. His eyes are watery and he smiles slightly every time Sherlock's eyes flutter open.

_Must be dreaming._

"And what would you intend to do afterward, Watson?"

Watson licks his lips and stands - crouches down at the side of Holmes' armchair with one hand holding onto Holmes' knee and the other on the floor.

"It would be illegal. I can assure you of that. But then again you've never been one to follow the law have you, Holmes?"

_The one thing I failed to deduce about him? How could I miss this? Over three years at his side and yet it blindsided me...sentiment._

Holmes glances down at the warm hand on his leg then slowly back up; nearly has to remind himself to breathe - "It would be dangerous."

Watson raises his eyebrows and grins - "And yet, here I am."

"You wouldn't mind breaking the law for me?"

"Have I ever?"

"No."

John Watson is a man of integrity who lives and breathes for the thrill of the chase and toes the line between obeying the law and allowing Holmes to pull him into his (at times) hardly legal schemes. Not once had he ever backed down.

No. He wouldn't this time either.

"Holmes..." he begins as he moves closer and braces him arms on either side of the armrests of Holmes' chair.

_His eyes are darker in this light. Pupils dilated, pulse likely accelerated, slight coloring in cheeks. Arousal. Oh..._

It's now or never and Holmes has never been fond of the concept of never.

"...John." It comes out as a whisper but it's enough to make Watson's eyes widen. Never before has he uttered Watson's Christian name as that practice indicates an intimacy that they've yet to establish.

This seems like the perfect starting point, a leap into the unknown with John Watson at his side.

His hand is trembling as he cups Holmes' cheek and, in a moment of bravery, runs his thumb over a full bottom lip, half expecting Holmes to push him away and insist on him finding a new flat to rent.

Watson leans in, lips close enough to Holmes' that they're sharing the same breath, nose brushing against Holmes'.

"Sh...Sherlock," he stammers.

Holmes eyes drift closed -

"There you are. Bloody near gave me a heart attack, you wanker."

_No...not yet. Please._

He screws his eyes together tightly and sighs when he can't seem to conjure up the past.

Still, he found the answers that he sought. If another life existed then John Watson had loved him in it and Sherlock had felt as if he'd finally came home after being away for an painfully long time.

_'I would find you'_

"You found me."

John grins and presses the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead then dabs away a line of sweat with a hankerchief.

"You were only gone for five minutes. On the plane that is. Mycroft is just outside - he phoned an ambulance, should be here any minute. You've been in and out of it for about twenty minutes."

Sherlock sluggishly straightens in his chair, tightly clutches the arm rests - "Mary?"

"Mycroft sent her home."

_Brother mine, the east wind carrying off the unworthy. I shall have to send him a plum pudding or a cake. Lemon will do._

"I solved it, John."

John's name is a balm on his lips, soothing cracks and fissures he hadn't known existed. It feels strangely intimate.

"Right. Okay."

Light bleeds in through the window and onto John's shoulder, warming it.

_My conductor of light._

"It was a simple string of deductions, a hanging mobile with notes scribbled onto each going 'round and 'round like a carousel. I don't know how I missed it before, it's simply genius."

"Let me get this straight; you were solving a case _while_ you were passed out?"

_You._

"You, John Watson. Its always been you."

John's face is a flurry of confusion as he struggles to piece together what currently isn't making any sense at all. "I don't understand."

Sherlock's body feels as if it weighs a ton and simply lifting his hand is exhausting but he has a second chance and in this lifetime it doesn't feel wrong. No, if anything it feels natural; he has loved John Watson in every minute of every universe they've ever found themselves in.

He extends it toward John and, seeing only confusion, drops it.

In his mind palace he constructed a singular room solely for John; in it are satchels of his favorite tea, an identical copy of his chair, lumpy pillows that smell like him, a timeline of their history together pinned to the wall - a replica of 221B. Its corners are carefully filled with details he'd stored there seeing as he hadn't planned on returning from this last case - the smell of John's shampoo mixed with something that's purely him, a collection of scented bath bombs that he's fond of, well worn books of poetry from poets he thought John might appreciate, crumpled shopping lists in John's messy scrawl, his favorite jumpers.

It's a room that he'd locked upon boarding the plane only now the door has been blown wide open.

"It's completely illogical but there was another version of you, John. He published stories for _The Strand_ and he was there at my side when Moriarty went over the falls. He's dead, John."

Sherlock waits for it, the realization and following "brilliant, fantastic!" but John simply laughs.

"You nearly die _again_ and this is what you dream of. Also how are you so sure that he's dead?"

_It's simple, don't you see it?_

"He went over the falls, I ensured it. And shot himself in the head on the roof of St. Barts. You can't come back from that."

"Then who is responsible for his latest antics?"

"I'm not sure but I know what he intends to do next."

_He's going to use Moran to come after you John. We have to monitor Mary closely. Possibly Janine as well._

"And you're sure of this? It isn't the drugs speaking?"

_The what? Oh. Those._

"Yes I'm sure."

"Why, Sherlock?"

"Why what? Oh...the drugs. I needed to dig deeper into my mind palace and find out what he was up to and tend to another case I'd yet to solve but I've found the answer to that one."

_I'm sorry, you're not ready to hear the full truth - that I didn't want to live in a world where you and I were split down the middle with no hope of redemption. That you're the one person in my life who keeps me right, who would walk through hell at my side if I asked you to. I couldn't, John. I couldn't._

_I'll tell you someday, I will._

John rubs at his eye and props up on one elbow.

_He's exhausted. Dark circles under his eyes are proof that he hasn't been sleeping well as of late - likely an entire week of poor sleeping habits. The week I was in prison...oh John._

"Care to share the details or at least an overview?"

A cough gets caught in Sherlock's throat followed by two more.

_That's the drawback of nearly offing ones self, I suppose._

John quickly leans forward to check the weakening pulse at his neck - "Where's the bloody ambulance when you need them? They should've been here ages ago."

Sherlock latches onto John's wrist, long pale fingers around shorter warmer ones as he catches his breath.

_Time for an experiment._

He brushes his thumb against the sensitive skin of John's inner wrist, back and forth, back and forth.

_Pulse accelerating._

Glances up long enough to look into John's eyes - _Eyes are softer, pupils dilated just as they were when he almost...when we almost..._

"Sherlock?"

It's glorious hearing his name on John's lips, he imagines it would feel like crushed velvet if it were a physical manifestation that he could touch and see.

With his free hand he mirrors John's actions - the John he'd built; like a more gentle and loving Frankenstein's monster.

_No, John will never be that._

John's cheek is hot against his palm and Sherlock nearly expects Scotland Yard to swoop in and lock them both up from a simple touch.

_It's not illegal here, we made it. We're here and we've wasted so much time already._

_Love me. Love me love me love me._

"John."

John leans into the touch and splays his hand over Sherlock's and it feels right, like nothing ever has or ever will.

It's Sherlock who leans in this time, tentatively scooting to the edge of his seat as John does the same and places a leg on either side of Sherlock, effectively enveloping him in a way that makes Sherlock's heart beat faster in his chest. 

_This is really happening. This isn't a story I've conjured up when nights were long and John's room was empty, his chair missing._

He slowly moves his hand to the nape of John's neck and waits, rubs a thumb along the bare skin and smiles as John's skin breaks out in goosebumps and his eyes close.

"Can I...?"

"Please," John breathes.

It can hardly be considered a kiss - a lingering press of his lips to John's before pulling back to make sure John is in this as well.

"Come back to me," John whispers as he slides his hands along the sides of Sherlock's neck and tugs him in.

John is Earl Gray tea and cinnamon, he is the sun shining through every dark corner Sherlock paints himself into. He is a dizzying kiss with tongue licking at the seam of Sherlock's lips until he can't stifle the deep moan that bubbles up in his throat. He is the sly grin against Sherlock's mouth and the slow and sensual slide of his tongue against Sherlock's; years of love poured into a single kiss; butterflies in Sherlock's stomach that he has never felt before. John's kisses are an addiction, more heady than any drug Sherlock has ever experienced.

It's only when John is pressing Sherlock back against the chair that he remembers where they are and that Sherlock is in no condition to be kissing right now, no matter how good it feels and it feels _incredible._

"If the two of you are finished with your fornicating the ambulance has arrived and it's proper procedure for the ill to be in it," Mycroft scoffs as he takes in the sight. He doesn't seem surprised at all and why should he be? He'd been able to read Sherlock since they were children, much to mummy's irritation as it had been the root of many an argument. He has known from the very beginning.

Sherlock takes in John's flushed appearance, lips red and slick from kisses - _his_ kisses, hair disheveled from Sherlock running his fingers through it somewhere between taking that fall for John and the present.

 ** _I_** _did that,_ he thinks to himself.

John straightens and coughs, puts as much distance between himself and Sherlock as he can. "Um...right...you should probably." He motions for Sherlock to scoot past him toward the ambulance as Mycroft leads the way with back ramrod straight and the tiniest smile that he ensures they don't see.

 

It's a short trip to the hospital, an I.V. and a stomach pump later that Sherlock wakes to find John sleeping sitting up at his bedside. The chair is all hard oak edges and cracked plastic - it hardly looks comfortable. He has one arm propped up with a fist holding up his head and the other resting in his lap.

"John."

John startles and sits upright, elbow slipping from the narrow armrest. "You're awake. Sorry I must've dozed off. How are you feeling?"

_Much better since you're here._

"I've had better days."

"Yeah well I imagine so."

Sherlock vividly recalls hallucinating and solving a murder that was somehow linked to Jim Moriarty and thus Mary as well. Amongst these memories is the stark realization that he kissed his best friend and it wasn't one sided.

"Mary?," he asks.

John tenses up at the mere mention of her name. "She's at home resting up."

_A safe distance from you, good._

"You kissed me back," Sherlock blurts out. His mind is fuzzy and his entire body aches - he doesn't have the energy to dance around the elephant in the room.

John shifts in his chair and crosses his legs - "Yes, yes I did."

_It was real, you felt it too. Say you did and I'll never ask for anything more than you're willing to give._

"Do you regret it?"

_Please don't say yes._

John shakes his head and laughs - "I must be absolutely mad but no...I don't."

"Does she know?"

_Does she know about us?_

Sherlock can see John visibly tense up and slip into defense mode - "Possibly."

Sherlock attempts to steeple his fingers in contemplation but the various wires and cords combined with the I.V. in the top of his hand make it more difficult than not.

"Interesting."

"No, not interesting Sherlock. This is not a case...we're not... _I'm_ not a case. Stop this."

_But you are, a case I'll never solve. I want to spend the rest of my life deciphering your code, picking you apart and putting you back together again. She'll only hurt you in the end and I can't let that happen.  
_

"She's dangerous, John."

John takes a deep breath and exhales - "I know."

"Be careful."

Those two words are enough to sum up a thousand unspoken ones - _the baby isn't yours;_ yeah but I can't - in good conscious -leave her in this state _, she works for Moriarty, she was there at the pool, she's up to something, this marriage is a sham as her name doesn't even belong to a living person, I love you please don't leave me. Don't die._

John takes Sherlock's hand in his own and turns it over to lightly trace the lines of his palm - "You're going to be out of commission for a few weeks at most, you'll need to recover. You shouldn't be at the flat alone."

_I see what you're doing._

"It'd be a shame to get worse when there's a doctor who can do house calls," Sherlock replies as he grins and squeezes John's hand.

"What lousy doctor would abandon a patient in need?"

"Mm, not this one," Sherlock murmurs as he tugs John's hand until he's close enough to kiss.

Ever the soldier, John scans the room quickly before dipping his head and feeling the rush of kissing Sherlock Holmes - the madman who he could now call his own even if only around one another. Whatever _this_ is, he craves it. Sherlock is and always has been his drug.

"You're a terrible patient, you know that?," John mumbles as he breaks the kiss then, bending to temptation, leans back in to steal another one.

"And why is that?," Sherlock asks as he runs his finger over the gold band on John's ring finger and wishes like hell that he'd been the one to put it there.

"You're supposed to be taking it easy, not taking me apart."

_Both. Both would be nice._

Sherlock grinned groggily. His medication was kicking in and his limbs were heavy, eyes shuttering closed.

 

Somewhere in his mind palace a mustached Watson led Holmes to his bed with endearments that seemed to flow off of his tongue as soon as the thoughts had formed in his head.

They would love one another like a secret whispered in the dark; a quiet desperation - a veiled story that would remain a mere footnote in the pages of _The Strand_. In this lifetime and the next.

**Author's Note:**

> I avoided all the violence and the case, sorry. I know that his MP is about more than just romance but I wanted to focus on that. Might've taken liberties with a few details as well. I wrote this at 6am and have had writers block for most of December so if you read this there's the distinct possibility (okay who are we kidding, it's a fact) that I love you.
> 
> If you liked it give me some kudos or flail with me over these two idiots here http://mostlikelydefinitelymad.tumblr.com/


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